I have not posted any poetry in a long time. I am not sure why. I guess I thought that it was all too dark or not any good. Here are two from the past few weeks. Routine experience has been interrupted for the time being, causing fruitful days.
2/7/11
You're just a painting now
A song humming in my head
Effervescent
I feel less alone now
Than when I felt you in your bed
Lying still
The magic that I sense
Flies past your lids
Unnoticed
My eyes look out
They are a light house
Waiting
2/22/11
Now it's an ordinary day
of ordinary energy
with all the excitement and quiet
that one normally contains
I don't know other worlds
Not today
Can this be the slow building
of something beautiful?
Is it a serious, monastic
devotion to glazing?
Will this whole result,
one day, gracefully bloom?
When will it snap?
Must it not bend like a river
in order to be living?
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